


Crispy

by cowboykylux



Series: 8 Nights of Light (Hanukkah Series) [11]
Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Actual Disaster Flip Zimmerman, Bad Cooking, Canon Jewish Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Hanukkah, Latkes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28142469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykylux/pseuds/cowboykylux
Summary: Flip attempts to make the latkes for your big Hanukkah party, and well, just about everything goes wrong. Thankfully, you're right there to help him when he needs you the most.
Relationships: Flip Zimmerman/Reader, Flip Zimmerman/You
Series: 8 Nights of Light (Hanukkah Series) [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050878
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Crispy

The clock is ticking, and guests are soon set to arrive, making you relatively anxious about what’s going on in the kitchen. Your husband has been toiling away in there for over an hour now, after all but begging to help with some aspect of preparing the big Hanukkah meal that everyone would enjoy in just a few more minutes. Flip was…well, he wasn’t the best in the kitchen, to put it lightly.

He was a disaster, to put it bluntly.

So you had given him an easy task, a very simple task so he could feel like he was helping in a substantial way: making the latkes. How difficult could it be for someone of his intelligence and competence, to mix three ingredients and flip them like a pancake?

If the smell coming from the general vicinity of the kitchen were anything to go by, apparently, pretty damn difficult.

“Hey honey?” You call loudly to him so he can hear over the sizzling of oil.

You’re moving between the living room and dining room, putting the last touches of festive flare up, and you can literally start to see a haze of something like smoke curling around the ceiling lights. Your suspicions are confirmed when the voice of your husband very nervously and hesitantly replies with, “…Yeah ketsl?”

“Something smells like it’s burning.” Putting down the last of the table-setting, you try very hard not to sound too accusatory when you ask lightly, “Is everything, uh, are you alright in there?”

“Yes!” Flip answers too quickly to be telling the truth, and suddenly there’s a loud bang and a crash and a _fuck!_ Before he’s recovering with, “Yes, all good here. Nothing um…nothing going wrong at all. Are you alright? How are you doing this evening?”

“Phil are you sure – ” You start, worried for his safety and also the structural integrity of the home that you share.

“No don’t come in here!” Flip practically yelps, knowing that you’re about to walk into the kitchen and see the disaster he’s created. “I’ve got it honey-bunny. It’s all under control.” 

What a monumental fucking lie that was, Flip thinks frantically, as he wrenches open the cabinets one by one to try and find the special latke platter you use year after fucking year and now all of a sudden seems to have vanished without a trace. A disaster, it’s an absolute disaster, Flip sweats through his flannel and curses under his breath as the fifth batch of latkes burn in the oil.

“Hold on, hold on,” Flip scrambles, racing around the kitchen as the oil is spitting and hissing and popping all over the place.

He’s been burned at least a dozen times so far, he’s at the end of his fucking rope, and dammit all he needs is the platter to get them out of the frying pan and –

“Aha!!” Flip finds it finally, hating how he didn’t have the foresight to pull it out of the cabinet _before_ embarking on this mess.

Triumphantly, he turns back around to the stove only to see the charred remains of what were the last of the sack of potatoes that he had effectively wasted in trying to fry up these latkes.

“Shit.” Flip’s heart breaks, and in a sign of defeat, he turns off the stove and fishes the sad looking latkes out of the oil.

Leaning against the counter, Flip tries not to cry. He had wanted to do so well for you, wanted to help you and give you one less thing to worry about – and in effect he had somehow made about four more problems.

The kitchen is a disaster, there’s shit all over the place, chairs are over-turned, drawers and cabinets are disheveled, the window is open to try and let out some of the smoke and the smell of burnt potato, and the little clock on the wall chimes letting him know that great, on top of everything else, people are set to come over every minute.

“Oh Philly.” He hears your gentle voice from the other side of the kitchen where you’ve finally come to his rescue.

He can’t help the hot sting of tears prick up at the corner of his eyes in frustration, and he wants to hide his face in shame. What kind of man was he, that couldn’t do one thing right for his wife? But you…strangely, you don’t look angry. You should be, he thinks, with the kind of shitshow you’ve walked into here, but instead, you’re carefully stepping over the overturned things on the floor to make your way to him, opening your arms.

“I’m sorry.” He shoves his face into your neck, willing his chin not to wobble, “I tried but, it all happened so fucking fast and then there was nowhere to put them so I had to leave them in longer looking for the platter and it just, sucks. They suck.”

“No they don’t.” You hug him tight, your arms a soothing embrace. “I bet they’re delicious, and they’re certainly crispy, which is – well I mean, part of the whole point.”

“They’re fucking terrible.” He shakes his head, refusing to come out from the crook of your shoulder, “It’s okay, you can say it.”

And then, miraculously, you’re chuckling. Not at him, not making fun of him, just laughing at the situation and at how dramatic all of it was – at the end of the day, they were just potatoes.

“They are pretty charred, huh.” You tug on his ear fondly, coaxing him out of his hiding spot gently and lovingly, “But that doesn’t mean they’re bad. I happen to love my latkes burnt.”

“You do?” Flip sniffs, his eyes big and wide and wet, and you nod.

“You bet honey.” You bump your hip against his as you walk away just a few feet to grab one of the small dishes from the cabinet and pass it to him, “Serve me up a plate?”

“Okay.” Flip bites the inside of his cheek sheepishly, doing as he’s told.

He can hear the crunch of the burnt latke as your teeth shatter it into a million pieces in your mouth, and either you love him so much, or you’re a great actor, because you don’t even react to the taste of the blackened edges. In fact, you hum as if it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever had, and Flip rolls his eyes, feeling a little less panicked that you’re going to divorce him now.

“You’re too good to me.” Flip scoops you up in his arms and carries you out of the kitchen, with your plate and all, making you laugh. “Way too fucking good to me. Wait until you see what I got you for tonight, it’ll make up for all this shit.”

“You don’t have to make up anything honey.” You say when he puts you down finally, “But next time, let me handle the latkes, okay?”

He knows he’s lucky, and he knows that he _will_ make it up to you – he’ll clean up his mess and put everything back to rights and he’ll love and appreciate you every minute of every day just like he always does.

And if anyone mentions the lack of potato pancakes on the table, well, they don’t say a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt: Sounds like Flip? :D “Person A is a disaster in the kitchen, but really wants to help Person B cook Hanukkah dinner. Person B doesn’t have the heart to tell them no, so they allow them to fry the latkes…and every one of them burns. Good thing Person A loves their latkes extra crispy!”


End file.
